


I need to be fucked - the sex scene.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlestoners
Genre: Car Sex, Erotica, F/M, Humor, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Omniscient, POV Tom Hiddleston, Sex in a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom fucks his publicist (no, not Luke. Don’t get excited) in the car on their way home to fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I need to be fucked - the sex scene.

The fact that Luke has given him a lift a couple of hours prior to the present moment does not, on a more assertive mental study of the situation, provide him with any sound reasoning on why he’s riding shotgun in his  _other_  publicist’s car, in the most non-platonic circumstance imaginable, on their way to her house, presumably - she hasn’t asked for any directions so he supposes his is a fair assumption - to fuck, that is. Clearly, his once impeccable work ethic has gone to shit - in which  _once_  refers to any point in time before eavesdropping on that blasted phone call then going on a limb and pretty much sexually harassing the poor girl based on the assumption that looks, fame, and money get the panties dropping faster than discounts for shiny things, which has, so far, proven to be true - and he can’t really be bothered about that, because there’s a freckled redhead ruining her beige leather seat with her lady juices next to him and, however much he’d like to think of himself as a proper gentleman, he’s really into that.

Pussy is pussy, and, to his traditionally heterosexual self, as long as the affair is consensual, it’s all the argument he needs not to feel guilty about his uncomfortably erect phallus, ever so eager for it, despite its owner’s not at all restrictive self-whoring and inveterate penetrative routine since, being the all-around charming bastard that he is, Tom Hiddleston gets bitches on the regular, romantic ideals be damned and all.

When the car is suddenly veered to the side, towards an empty street and promptly parked, however, Tom thinks that something either went tits up on the way to their destination and he’s in for a serious case of fateful blue balls or tits are to go up sooner than expected, prospect at which he revels quite a bit because his Jaguar is a tiny ass car, too small for any unorthodox activities to transpire on its backseat, thus making car sex a fiasco waiting to happen for him and his tentacular limbs.

“Fuck this,” her forehead, in a deliberate and very expressive motion, hits her whitened knuckles on the twelve point of the steering wheel. She rubs her face against her own skin in frustration, groaning low in her throat, and, while his stance remains akin to that of a stoically patient man, Tom is growing dangerously anxious as to the unfolding of the events in the immediate future of their impromptu tête-à-tête. “This place is as good as any,” she mumbles. “Can’t you just fuck me here?”

Jackpot.

Praise the lord for the back of the vehicle which is spacious enough to accommodate the both of them because Tom feels particularly gallant yet again, and especially inclined to entertain nearly every request the young lady might ungraciously throw his way - he draws the line at weird fetishes, though; he’s more of a vanilla kind of guy - and praise the lord for the female anatomy, as never have upward facing tits ever felt so good in his hands as they do now, the pretty ginger purring as she’s roughly fondled. He kisses her, her mouth, her cheeks, her chin, neck, collarbone, each shoulder, and then nibbles on the hardened buds of her breasts, and her cries are gratifying on their own, distilled from every instance of erotic appeal and physical pleasure, to mere reactions to his touch, and, man, he could get off just having the thought of it linger in his mind for a few minutes. But he can’t do that. As engaging as it sounds, there are pants to remove, both hers and his own, and orgasms to achieve, and he can’t leave the freckled redhead waiting for longer than socially acceptable. 

If removing garments from one’s body in a cramped space sounds like a dreadful task it’s because it infallibly is, but as soon as they are off Tom nearly forgets unprotected sex directly results in him fathering the illegitimate offspring of his _employee_ \- and groupie, as he’s found out somewhere in between remarks such as  _Loki is my favourite Marvel character_  and  _An entire movie of Jamie Dornan fucking Dakota Johnson and I still get wetter at ‘this is my bargain, you mewling quim’_ , but he’s getting laid so, at this point, fuck moral integrity along with romantic ideals, really - so, in a blessed instant of mental clarity he rolls a condom he’s spent an infuriating minute rummaging for in his pockets.

“Oh, shit, yeah. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

And yes, ooooh  _yes_ , he’s finally inside her and her pink dripping cunt, slippery and warm and squeezing the sanity out of him, just as he’s expected it would judging on the freckled redhead’s tight form, barely anything to grab onto, but who can argue with the superb aesthetics of lean arms and legs and prominent, yet somehow, ever bewitchingly, delicate in their smooth deflections and imperfectly sharp angles. Tom has made it one of his life’s most rewarding joys to dessicate beauty to such an extent that he can attribute it to anybody but especially to them, the beautiful sex, women, lodgings of life in such varied forms it’s baffling, them who scream and moan and grunt without inhibitions, who obediently lean into touches and arch in delight, offering more than they are given - more contact, more pleasure, more feeling, until they unravel. And she does, with a few more pumps and a strategically placed thumb, the climax rippling through her at an intensity he’s never known, trembling as his hips steadily thrust, over-saturating, with firm precision into his own finishing tremor and growl, nearly dropping his weight on top of her lithe one. 

Post-coital bliss is an actual thing, a resurrection of the senses, Tom figures, because the French couldn’t have called it  _la petite mort_ for nothing. 

**Author's Note:**

> I went to sleep somewhere around two a.m. writing this and am currently late for school because I wanted to finish it. I suppose it’s crystal clear where my priorities lie. School is still creatively cock-blocking me so, yeaaaahh… This was originally intended to be a short sequel to this post (http://skinnylittleredwrites.tumblr.com/post/105979391019/oh-fuck-i-didnt-mean-to-i-mean-so), lacking the implied erotica.  
> Posted originally on skinnylittleredwrites.tumblr.com


End file.
